


Water Off Your Back

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Male Slash, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 16:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9280475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: Bucky spent years fighting. Casual gentle touch feels like a yearning dream. He gets hungry watching Steve and Sam.





	

 

 

 

When Bucky woke up, the world was warm and clean. The air tasted sterile and smelled antiseptic. He could see Steve and Sam. Neither of them looked much older than his last memories – Steve watching him through the glass, Sam saying goodbye as he talked on the phone, muffling the mouthpiece as he told Bucky “I still hate you,” with a expression that had curled around his words – and neither of them looked injured. Bucky’s heartbeat stuttered; there was a loud electronic echo.

 

The sound made him flinch and then he was forcing himself from tension to relaxation but there were no shocks running through his body. He assessed - his hands and his feet weren’t restrained. There was no machinery revolving, about to clamp to his head. There were seven people in the room all looking at him but no one was talking.

 

Sam and Steve weren’t in uniform. Their gazes were trained on him, concerned and waiting. Steve’s concern was pinching his brow into a frown and Bucky wanted that changed and saw Sam lean closer to Steve to say something; Steve’s body turning towards him without hesitation, the two of them dove-tailing beautifully.

 

The monitor’s beeping sped up. Bucky flexed his fingers. Bodies were for fighting, for surviving, for completing assignments. They were refueled and repaired. Before that, he remembered flashes of girls with curves, then Steve. Steve. There were  **a lot** of memories running fast and sharp now. Then another racing beep. Bucky bit his tongue – no blood, not yet.

 

He was in a medical suite, the same one where he had been put to sleep before. King T’Challa was looking at him intently but without any accusation. The others were bodyguards – he could pick out holstered weapons and stances - and medical staff. Bucky breathed in – the air was clean and cool, blowing in through the vents, and carried no hint of the weather outside. Everything looked expensive; it reminded him of another lab he’d gone to once ( _collect the spores, eliminate any threats or impediments_ ).

 

“Sergeant Barnes?”

 

King T’Challa. Bucky straightened and lifted his head in acknowledgment. He made sure that he spoke in English. Three different African dialects were spinning through his head; he let them drop.

 

“Your Highness.”

 

The relief on Steve’s face, the quietly-pleased look on Sam’s. Bucky clenched his hands. More English in memories from before – Steve telling him they’d find a way to make sure there'd be no more orders. Bucky had looked at Steve like he was stupid (stupider than usual). He was sure Sam would have worn the exact same look.

 

Bucky's heartbeat steadied. He strained to hear theirs. Nothing.

 

*

 

King T’Challa’s voice was mellow and measured. He told Bucky he was welcome in Wakanda. A man called Doctor Strange had helped him remove all triggers from Bucky’s head.

 

“Magic,” Sam stated.

 

Bucky looked at him with an expression to match Sam’s tone, an expression that grew when Sam mirrored it back. It felt good, like muscles getting reused. Bucky rolled his shoulders; he was wearing jeans that almost fit and a soft loose t-shirt. His feet were in lace-ups and there was a hair-tie around his wrist. He’d eaten bread and meat and had drunk two bottles of water, though he was still thirsty. His health was assessed as good ( _functional_ ), the serum was still working. Steve was watching him intently, frowning again. His and Sam’s sides touched as they listened to King T’Challa. Bucky felt hungry again.

 

He ran fingers over the edge of the bed – the mattress was firm and the sheets were crisp. The air from the vents was still cool and the room was still warm.

 

Bucky had been fitted with a new arm. King T’Challa’s scientists had been working on it since he’d gone to sleep. It was still metal; it felt as much a part of him as the first had. He remembered looking at the empty socket, numb with shock, shot through with memories of falling, that last devastated glimpse of Steve and lying in snow for hours. He hadn’t been able to move for a second, rigid with remembered cold. But Steve had pulled him up and they’d walked away and King T’Challa had led them to a jet. Everything had looked frozen above the clouds.

 

Sam shifted and Steve’s expression relaxed an inch. Bucky remembered – Steve laughing despite it being eight below and the concrete like a mirror to walk on, then trying to rescue a mutt that was scrabbling against the snow. Little Stevie with the biggest stupidest heart. Some things. Yeah. Bucky’s heart went again but no monitor echoed it now. His hands relaxed, though they wanted to reach, touch, receive. Steve looked hopeful but Bucky wasn’t the man in the museum pictures.

 

Sam gave Bucky another bottle of water. Bucky had pulled off one of Sam’s wings and had reached for the other. There’d been the grace of the Falcon’s flight (the Soldier’s eyes hadn't appreciated that but Bucky remembered it differently now and  **appreciated** ) and then Sam running beside him against friends.

 

Bucky had thrown himself in front of Sam. He might have done the same for Barton, for Lang. It tasted of a lie. The only touch he’d ever gotten from Sam was a punch to the face.

 

*

 

The Wakanda house was small but comfortable; that was what Sam said. Bucky looked around twice, noted good sniper perches and checked everywhere he would have used for a bug or bomb site. Neither Steve nor Sam stopped him.

 

“My wings are under the stairs,” commented Sam with a twist of amusement, like he was adding to Bucky’s mental list too.

 

Bucky eyed him, using the unimpressed gaze as cover to take a lingering look at Sam. This was who had taken care of Steve, stood by him, run with him when it’d meant abandoning family and facing the law and friends. Another soldier, more than that too. Bucky had seen the way Sam touched Steve; comfortable, relaxed, pointed sometimes, getting rid of Steve’s frowns. Bucky didn’t stare, though he wanted to. He had no orders but had his own mission from the moment he’d woken up, clear as day. Still hunger was all he could feel.

 

Steve was taking off his shoes and Sam had kicked his off once he’d gotten past the door. Bucky stared down; he’d walked through gravel, glass and needles before. They’d always been removed. There’d been people to stitch him up and scrub him clean. Wakanda had offered a warm shower like soft rain and no one else present in the bathroom. It hadn’t hurt at all.

 

Now he was in a small house with Steve and Sam. They were walking in socked feet – vulnerable, stupid – without any hesitation or concern. Bucky stared at the carpet – it was deep blue, matching the drapes. He shifted from foot to foot but didn’t feel anything give. He remembered hard wood floor, always cold.

 

He knew Steve was watching, he could hear Sam talking quietly and Steve keeping quiet. Bucky’s hunger wasn’t going anywhere. He unlaced one shoe, then the other. He eased them off and properly felt the carpet through thin cotton socks – better than Army-issue, the memory of rotting feet needed to fade. He could brace himself against the carpeted surface, it felt like luxury.

 

“Buck.”

 

That was Steve and he was smiling (no frowns), like he’d done exactly the same thing. Bucky didn’t list towards him though felt his own weight shift. He wasn’t going to fuck up his choices, or the ones they'd made already. His mission. The air was warmer here than in the medical lab.

 

“This is small?” he asked flatly, because he’d remembered small, living in a couple of rooms with all drafts and chill, newspaper packed into Steve’s shoes.

 

Steve laughed, something so glad in it that Bucky was already greedy for more. He’d hoard it with memories – both versions of Steve, Bucky’s arm around his shoulders, how bright Steve’s eyes were. There’d rarely been space between them. Steve being a little shit with his mouth; Bucky knew he hadn’t imagined that. Steve had been greedy too. Hungry. Bucky breathed out. Memories. Choices. No frowns.

 

“Bucky?”

 

Bucky opened his eyes, he didn’t remember closing them. Steve was getting near, his expression creasing with concern; Bucky sat down quickly on a small couch. He smiled, to ease Steve’s expression, and made himself relax. He could feel the heat Steve radiated. He didn’t lean close, like he wanted to. Steve was looking cautiously at him but the lines weren’t as deep in his face anymore. Choice.

 

*

 

They each had a bedroom. Bucky’s bed seemed too big. He could hear Steve and Sam talking, one going to the other’s room. They didn’t try to hide it. They were happy. Bucky listened – for touches, for sound. He tried to imagine being surrounded by that, receiving any of it, a touch so kind. It made something prickle under his eyelashes and the hunger howl.

 

The night, he twitched through half-dreams of cold and pain and children dying at his hands. He didn’t think he screamed. No one disturbed him.

 

When Steve asked how he slept, he grinned like a doll he’d once seen in Mexico and said “Like the dead.”

 

Steve looked half reproachful, half exasperated; that was real familiar. Sam laughed as he made coffee. “You know I‘ve heard worse from you.”

 

“You have not.”

 

Sam’s shrug was a ripple, “Coming from Captain America, anything sounds worse.”

 

“You been cursing again?” Bucky asked mildly, just to peel away Steve’s discontent and see Sam’s reaction.

 

Sam’s grin was wide, absolute interest gleaming in his gaze as he put a cup of coffee down in front of Bucky, motioning to cream and sugar. Bucky could feel his warmth too. “Tell me he did it in front of uniforms.”

 

Bucky smirked – another old muscle getting used – and spooned up sugar. “He didn’t like cursing by the men, figured it’d damage his leadership, right up ‘til Dum-Dum dropped a match and torched half a shelter we’d built for the night.”

 

Sam’s laugh was a different kind of gladness. Steve had a look on his face that told Bucky he felt the same way. Bucky was hungrier still.

 

*

 

There was a place to work out not far from the house, somewhere to lift weights and punch bags. Sam and Steve went running first though and Bucky wavered between joining them and giving them space. He looked at them as though he was thinking it over, taking in both of them in vests and shorts. Something else to hoard. His hunger.

 

Sam was fiddling with his iPod – he’d offered to get Bucky one and build up some playlists. He had stories about Steve’s reactions to all kinds of new music, stories that made Sam’s face crease up and his whole body go happy and amused. Yeah. Bucky liked those stories. He wondered keenly how those creases would feel. He clenched his fingers at his side.

 

Neither Steve nor Sam seemed put out when he reached for his lace-ups and Sam was the one who handed him sweats to wear – “I know you’ll make this look good and I’ll still hate you.” Bucky smirked and stripped off his t-shirt to change right there. Steve sounded exasperated again, as he said Bucky’s name.

 

“What, you grow anything extra in the ice?” Bucky asked, his eyes dancing to his smirk’s tune.

 

Sam’s gaze was amusedly appreciative as Bucky changed and put on his shoes. It felt great, warmer. Was that how Sam’s touch felt? The kind that wasn’t punching? No wonder Steve looked so happy.

 

“Super soldier sass,” Sam commented, with a smile and laugher hitching his words. “I give, man. I’m surrounded.”

 

Another image to hoard. Bucky let his hair fall in front of his face as he finished tying laces. His hands were steady; he tried not to hear the quiet words murmured between Steve and Sam as he gave himself and them an illusion of privacy. Steve was comfortable telling Sam stuff that would have gotten them arrested way back when. Bucky ran a finger along his own arm, apparently idle. He knew it wasn’t the same.

 

Out on the streets, Steve ran laps past Sam who seemed resigned to the incompatibility and tried to focus on his own pace. Bucky focused on them. Running behind, he allowed himself to really look and enjoy the view. Bucky breathed in – the sun was hot and there was something ripe in the air, some kind of fruit he couldn’t categorize. He watched Steve and Sam; he wondered how fast their heartbeats were.

 

Then Sam glanced over his shoulder and held Bucky’s gaze. Sam’s skin was damp with sweat; how would that feel? Bucky pressed his lips together and kept his fingers closed. He couldn’t outrun his hunger.

 

“I assume you’ve already been past too fast for me to notice,” Sam commented.

 

Bucky sped up enough to reach Sam’s side, as Steve passed by again. “Thought you gave up when you got surrounded?”

 

Then he took off, easily keeping up with Steve but not so far away that he missed Sam’s exasperated shout followed by, “I still hate you!”

 

*

 

They were only in Wakanda for four days. Steve wanted to move on. King T’Challa told him they were still welcome but Steve felt guilty, Bucky could see that and exchanged a knowing glance with Sam that made him feel too warm. Familiarity was good – knowing habits meant easy tracking – but he had his mission.

 

Steve didn’t want to bring suspicion to Wakanda so they were going to leave. Living on the move was the best idea. King T’Challa arranged for them to get back into the States and between them, Sam and Steve had enough contacts to find a small safehouse. Bucky suspected Natalia’s hand.

 

Sam and Steve had to have houses and apartments of stuff but they each travelled with the same size bag as Bucky and didn't send for anything more. Bucky was keeping them from so much. There was no point in saying anything; Steve wasn’t going to move and he’d frown otherwise. And Bucky had his mission.

 

He checked the new American house three times over, stashed weapons in most rooms, and did two-hourly perimeter checks. They were pretty much on the outskirts of a town and there was only very light traffic passing. They’d have plenty of warning about approaches.

 

Bucky got the TV working properly. He could hear Sam talking about groceries and gardening in the kitchen and Steve wondering out-loud about burner phones. Bucky unlaced his shoes.

 

He still slept badly but enough. He could hear Steve and Sam – sleeping, kissing, always touching. They weren’t touching him; Steve still frowned too much. Nothing took the edge off Bucky's hunger and he was waking from a real vivid dream of the extraction he’d spearheaded two years before ( _three kills by gunshot, plastic explosives set off to cover retreat; number of casualties still unknown_ ) when there was a gentle knock at his bedroom door.

 

Steve and Sam appeared, both in loose shorts, both with careful warm eyes. Bucky wanted to reach for the gun under the mattress. No, he wanted them closer. No, he didn’t. Steve sat down on the bed – it was firm and not as comfortable as the ones in Wakanda. He was still warm. Bucky could feel the hunger roaring now but he kept it behind his teeth. He couldn’t take his eyes off Steve, not when he was so close and warm and that look was in his eyes, like Dum-Dum’s stupidly struck match.

 

Sam stayed on his feet, though he didn’t stay that far from Steve. He was watching Bucky, considered, like he was taking it all in and coming to a conclusion. He rested a hand near Steve’s shoulder; the hunger burned in Bucky's throat as he swallowed. Sam’s expression didn’t twitch but it did smooth out.

 

“Looks we got this ass-backwards,” he commented lightly. “How long’s it been since any contact wasn’t medical, functional or fighting?”

 

He directed the question at Bucky like he knew; his hand on Steve a pointed example, and Steve was frowning again. Bucky’s hand spasmed under the covers. He shook his head. Steve’s confusion cleared and he got closer.

 

“Buck?”

 

It was a clear question; Steve’s hand spread out on the cover, so close to Bucky’s. Sam wasn’t moving either. And the hunger inside of Bucky wanted to break out. They were here, not moving, offering. The fact that Bucky wasn’t reacting was making Steve frown. Bucky’s mission included himself now too, apparently.

 

He inched his hand closer and Steve intertwined their fingers for a moment, a sigh gusting up his throat. Bucky could feel his legs trembling, it was moving up his body. Steve climbed over him in fluid motions and got under the covers, his arms an open offer. Sam sat on the bed now and Bucky wanted him closer. But first, Steve was warm and so very close and Bucky got them closer still, the hunger too great with Steve right there, inviting him. This had taken away Steve’s frown.

 

Steve’s fingertips grazed Bucky’s shoulder, then Bucky could feel them mapping out his back and he bowed his head, letting out a heavy breath, his body still trembling. He was almost against Steve’s chest now and there was a dip of mattress and shuffle of covers as Sam lay down at Bucky’s back, not getting close enough to touch yet, like he was waiting for something.

 

Bucky didn’t raise his head but he did reach back to grasp at Sam’s hip, getting a laugh that made his shoulders roll back and Sam get close enough to spoon up against him, a line of perfect warmth. His skin felt different to Steve’s which was familiar and new all at once. Sam was completely new country, smooth and scarred. Bucky leaned back into him, fascinated, wanting. Steve squeezed Sam’s shoulder now and they looked at each other in a way that made Bucky shift. But he stayed mostly still, concentrating on feeling, how it wasn’t going away. It wasn’t just hunger, it was  **greed** .

 

He pressed closer to Steve, not letting go of Sam, a sound escaping past his teeth. Sam’s arm circled his waist. Bucky’s breathing was getting heavier. He couldn’t speak. He needed more.

 

He could feel their heartbeats. He pressed a hand to Steve’s chest.

 

He hadn’t been drunk in decades. It felt like a memory. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the room was full of light and he’d slept without dreaming. He felt rested.

 

Steve kissed his hairline gently. Bucky butted up into it, getting a quiet laugh. Sam pinched at Bucky’s hip; it almost tickled, like Sam knew he’d get that reaction. Bucky glared up at Steve who only looked slightly sorry.

 

“Need every advantage I can get,” Sam said in Bucky’s ear.

 

His breath was hot and Bucky didn’t feel like his greed had been sated at all. He reached back to return the pinch; Sam didn’t try to dodge out of it. Bucky could feel how hard both Steve and Sam were; his own cock stayed quiet. He was used to that.

 

“All you had to do was ask, Buck,” Steve said quietly, his eyes warm and wanting.

 

Bucky tipped his head slightly, like a shrug without shoulders, not saying that he didn’t want to step in the good stuff they’d found in the middle of the shit he’d caused. He didn't want to keep making Steve frown. Sam stroked fingers down Bucky’s thigh.

 

“We’ve talked,” Sam said mildly but yeah, he knew the effect he was having, Bucky pinched him again. Sam pinched back. “About what you might need, what we all want. How the two line up.”

 

Steve was still looking at Bucky and there was no anger there, no frustration. He  **wanted** Bucky right there. He still wasn’t frowning. It was too bright.

 

“What about you?” Bucky asked Sam, half-turning his head, looking through his hair.

 

“Oh, I still hate you,” Sam replied, a laughing lie in his mouth, his breath still hot in Bucky’s ear.

 

Bucky shuddered, just a little. “Yeah. Feeling's mutual.”

 

Sam’s teeth grazed Bucky’s ear, he was sure, but then Sam moved to kiss Steve over Bucky’s shoulder. It was a hell of a view. The greed was banking again. Bucky swallowed.

 

“Breakfast,” Sam said after a moment.

 

“Pancakes?”asked Steve with so much hope that Bucky smiled.

 

Sam kissed Bucky’s shoulder and ran a last lingering hand over him before getting out of bed. Bucky frowned now; he already felt colder. Steve wrapped both arms around him. Sam grinned down at them.

 

“I’m gonna take pictures.”

 

“Don’t send them to Nat,” Steve replied, only opening one eye.

 

Sam didn’t agree to that and headed out the door, probably to put some pants on annoyingly. Bucky buried his face against Steve. This could be a dream, though he’d never dreamt anything like it before. It was still too bright. He was warm, Steve was a furnace. Sam was something else. Bucky was greedy for both.

 

“It’s always you, Buck,” Steve’s voice was soft. “That hasn’t changed.”

 

After everything. Steve really believed that – Bucky could hear his heartbeat. His grip on Steve increased a fraction, his greed still simmering, but still.

 

“That’s not fair,” he said just as softly.

 

Not fair to Sam, he didn’t deserve that. Steve nodded.

 

“Sam asked about you, back before I knew how to explain anything. Said he recognized what I was carrying.”

 

And he’d still stuck around. He could cook too.

 

“You don’t deserve him.”

 

He could feel Steve’s smile against his forehead. “Yeah.”

 

*

 

There were long conversations over breakfast. Bucky explained bluntly that he hadn’t had off-mission sex in years. He hadn’t been interested. No, Hydra hadn’t done anything to him to affect that. They’d never been interested in screwing the weaponry. And punishments for mishandling and damage had been severe enough to keep him untouched. It was everything else, as far as he could tell, the years on ice and off. Maybe that drive was gone. Well, not completely because there were longings and heat around Steve and Sam. But that wasn’t his priority.

 

He was most interested in them, in being beside them, watching them. And mostly he was interested in the touches they exchanged without thought and that they’d avoided including Bucky in because according to Sam, the unredacted HYDRA reports had been shitty reading and from the way Bucky had been behaving, they’d figured that space was his best friend right now. Bucky eyed Sam and then pressed icebox-cold fingers to his torso. Sam cursed and smacked a hand to Bucky's chest.

 

Steve took a couple of pancakes off Bucky’s plate during the commotion, like Bucky wouldn’t notice. Well, once Sam took a seat, Bucky moved to sit on him, pointedly.

 

“I do not have the super soldier legs for this,” Sam stated.

 

But he didn’t push Bucky off and fed Bucky a forkful or two of syrupy pancakes and bacon. Steve smiled and watched them; his fingers moving in a way that Bucky knew meant Steve was wishing for pencils. The greed was warm in Bucky’s veins; as warm as Steve was to touch, as warm as Sam’s smile. Warm like a good drink had felt inside of him once, cheat drinks they'd made with cheap buys on days they could afford it.

 

“You look like a Tom Collins day,” Steve echoed his thoughts with a smile to match.

 

Bucky grasped Sam’s free hand, tracing the bone lines and hard-working skin, relishing them like the last drops of lemon and gin. He remembered them stinging cuts in his lips sometimes and Steve teasing him about the next girl to kiss him. Bucky grinned slowly. Yeah.

 

*

 

There were movies to watch sometimes and Bucky shared a couch with Steve and Sam, usually pressed shoulder to shoulder with one of them. Once, he lay with his head in Sam’s lap and Steve’s hands through his hair. He watched the two of them make-out and joined in a couple of times.

 

He pressed cold feet to Steve’s thighs, to hear Sam’s laugh and to hear Steve call him ‘punk’. He wore Sam’s lace-ups and used up the hot water to hear Sam say ‘I hate you’ and to hear something else under it too. He ran as regularly as they did and checked the perimeter and took apart the television and put it back together again. No bugs. There were more long conversations, with words that were different kinds of triggers (Peggy, Riley, Ma, Russian, Natalia). Bucky still worked against Steve’s frown, and Sam’s too. They all had closed-up or loud raw days and their own greed like Bucky’s. They all stay hungry.

 

Some nights Bucky dreamed of Steve and Sam dying, a group in Boston, a couple in Denmark, a row of cars blowing up in Amsterdam, a boat sinking in Cannes, until he broke out gasping and there were Steve and Sam, soothing him and guiding him in from the cold.

 

_-the end_

 

 


End file.
